


desire lines

by sorrymom



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: F/F, aw jeez, doing the least amount of canon damage possible, happy monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28830252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrymom/pseuds/sorrymom
Summary: Asami always liked speed. Wind against her face. The snarling crescendo of an engine. That squirm in her stomach as the world blurs at the edges and something distant, something just beyond the glare of the headlights is the only clear thing left.That’s where she found her kinship with Korra. They shared a relentlessness. A fear of stalling in the streets. A survivor's instinct, like a shark— keep moving and you’ll know you’re alive.Which is why it’s odd that it took so much patience to know each other.
Relationships: Korra/Asami Sato
Comments: 13
Kudos: 125





	desire lines

The only people who attend Hiroshi Sato’s trial are photographers. 

And Asami. Of course. 

She sits in the back row of the courtroom, behind the shield of camera lenses and flashbulbs, legs crossed and arms folded. Her fingers flex into fists beneath the leather of her driving gloves whenever her father mumbles into the microphone. 

His lawyer was good for patents and copyright suits, but not this. But he tries. He tells the jury about what happened to her mother. Half of them slouch in sympathy. Half roll their eyes. 

Her father is convicted anyways. Asami is a breath away from the door when the judge reads out ‘life in prison’, and the cameras click like the beaks of vultures. 

_____________________

When Asami lost her mother she had nowhere to go but the house it happened in. 

There was no room where the windows didn’t seem tender and breakable. No room that didn’t carry the faint, sweet smell of smoke. 

She’d lay in her bed and stare at the dark, and behind the dark the door, and behind the door— there could be anything. Most likely something that wanted to kill her. More likely— more terribly— her father, unsure if he should knock. 

It was two years before he could manage to say more than ‘good morning’ to her. 

_____________________

When Asami loses her father she has more options. 

She spends most nights with one hand clenched around a wheel, one resting on the gear-shift. A comet-trail of dust and exhaust ghosts down the dirt-path in the flatlands around Republic City. 

Asami always liked speed. Wind against her face. The snarling crescendo of an engine. That squirm in her stomach as the world blurs at the edges and something distant, something just beyond the glare of the headlights is the only clear thing left. 

It’s never that she hits a dead-end. It’s never that she feels too tired to keep going. 

It’s just a word that rings in her mind, her father’s voice distorted like radio static. It stings like a hangnail. A pointed, unignorable pain. In the rearview mirror, strung just above the peach fuzz light pollution of the city, is a faint star. It has just enough gravity to sink a hook in the sore space at the center of Asami’s chest. 

She turns the car around— wheels squealing in protest, brakes gritting their teeth.

For the rest of the drive, as the skyline grows like a luminescent mold against the windshield, there’s a high-pitched siren wailing in her ears— a tinnitus fishing line reeling her back. 

Until the next night. When she tries again. When maybe she gets a few miles further. It’s impossible to tell if she gets any closer to nothing. 

_____________________

There’s a problem with Future Industries. It’s a shallow one, but Asami understands it. People don’t want to buy an Equalist car. 

She could rename the Satomobile and soften the association. She could start manufacturing cheaper junk than Cabbage Corp. She could sponsor a pro-bending team again and take interviews where she weeps in front of cameras and— what? Date Mako again? 

All these unguaranteed solutions from the board members pile up on her workshop desk. The sheets of paper are like leaves in a river— eventually there’s too much, and it’s a dam between her brain and any decision. 

So her days are like this: 

She takes the ferry to Air Temple Island and sits in the shade of the meditation pavilion. She draws blueprints, fiddles with engine parts she brought in her pockets, and tries to remember to drink the tea Pema brings her before it gets cold. 

Sometimes, over the flush of bamboo, she sees Korra and the kids gliding on the breezes breathed in from the sea. 

Which is why Asami decides to fly. 

_____________________

The final draft of the biplane is about as fast as her car, by all measurements, but there’s something different about being in the sky. The horizon is more like a suggestion than a fact. The wind here has sharper teeth. 

Asami does think of leaving. 

She made the plane for herself more than anyone else.

That had always been her father’s advice. ‘Make something you’d buy and then everyone will want it.’ Because Sato used to mean mansions and expensive restaurants and some sort of glamour. It used to mean in exchange for a little money you could look like something you’re not.

_____________________

Varrick is not a solution. He’s a loan. A lot of money for a little time. It would be a good deal if Varrick wasn’t— well. Varrick. 

“I’m a lot like your father,” he’s saying, twisting his moustache into an impossibly thin line. “In all the good ways. Not the bad ways.” 

Asami brings an empty teacup to her lips and pretends to take a sip. It’s a good strategy for silence. 

“Actually, now that I think about it, we’re nothing alike. He did cars and I did ships. Totally different stuff.” His assistant bobs her head in sage agreement. “Have you ever made a boat, Asami?” 

“No, but my plane prototype is—” 

“I’ll give you a tip for free. You have to make it float.” 

“I think I could have figured that—” 

“Once I tried to make an unfloating boat. Very easy. Totally unsellable.” 

“Isn’t that a submarine?” 

Varrick’s thin eyebrows rocket up his forehead. “Zhu Li,” he hisses. “Get the marketing department on the horn.” 

Asami lifts the empty teacup while the assistant jogs out of the room. 

“You’re a smart girl, Asami. Or lady. A smart lady.” 

“Thank you.” She tries not to say it too flatly. “As I was saying—”

“I was thinking.” Varrick presses his fingertips together and leans forward. “That if this whole, you know, Future Company malarkey doesn’t work out, maybe you could work for me. Well, with me. But for me.” 

“Oh. That’s—” Asami’s stomach twists. “Very kind—”

Varrick beams. “I know!” 

_____________________

A letter comes from the Republic City prison. 

Behind the wheel, Asami thinks of going back to the flatlands, seeing how much further she could push the car before turning around. 

But it would be nicer to go to someone. 

There’s Mako and his cramped downtown apartment. Maybe he’d be kind enough to hug her. More likely, he’d be stiff-shouldered and tired. 

There’s Bolin, who would definitely hug her. But he’s probably still on Varrick’s yacht, screening movers and trying to get that actress to glance at him. 

So Asami ends up on the ferry. 

Air Temple Island always looks so grand from a distance— even grander at night. And then she remembers that there’s just one family that lives in a place meant for a hundred. 

She walks past the entry gardens and the meditation pavilion, spinning her keys around a finger. It’s only when her hand is poised to knock on Korra’s window that she remembers. 

_____________________

The bitter cold of the South Pole is even worse in the cockpit of the bi-plane. Asami shivers beneath layers of fur and leather. Each breath comes as thick, as strained, as smoke. 

Unalaq is using mechas her father made for the Equalists. 

Mako, anchored to one of the wings, throws barrages of fire down at them. 

Bolin, on the other, is screaming. 

And beyond all that— the chaos of ice, the battlements below them— is a pillar of light. 

_____________________

When they get back to Republic City, there are more letters from the prison on her desk. 

Asami slots them in the bottom drawer of her desk. 

It’s a familiar daze that brings her back to Air Temple Island. The kids are jumping between the trees. Pema brings her a cup of tea. She stations herself on the meditation pavilion, lays on her stomach, and starts a new sketch in her notebook. 

It’s not like she’s hoping for Korra to come out of the main house, yawning into the afternoon and pushing a hand through her hair when she sees Asami. She’s not hoping for it but when it happens she can’t help sitting up straight, waving. 

Korra drifts over, rubs her eyes, like she’s not sure what to do. 

“Oh, I’m— did Pema wake you up?” 

Korra sighs. “She’s been trying to for hours.”

There’s a weak flutter in Asami’s chest. Like an engine trying to turn over. “Would you be disappointed if I just came here to work?” 

“You’re kicking me out of a meditation pavilion?”

“I’m giving you an out.” 

Korra’s face constricts in confusion. Asami doesn’t think she’s seen her tired before— not this kind of tired anyways; the just sleepy, simple kind. It’s— 

“What’s that for?” 

Asami glances down at the notebook. “Oh. It’s a new car.” 

Korra crouches down, angling her head to get a better look. 

“It’s for the snow. Instead of wheels there will be these.” Asami draws an arrow toward the skis, which seems silly. Of course Korra would know that—

“But how would you do the—” Korra makes a circle motion with her hand. 

“Propulsion? Torque?”

Korra shrugs. 

Asami flips a few pages back in the notebook. “That’s the problem I was running into. But this—”

“One big flat wheel,” Korra translates, looking up from the page for approval. 

“Basically, yes.” 

Korra grins, relieved. 

“It could be faster than a car.” 

“Even your car?”

“Well. Maybe not my car.” 

They spend an hour side by side, laying on their stomachs, propped up on their elbows, flipping through Asami’s notebook. There are silly old drafts from years ago, some early concepts for airships and scooters, a few drawings of engines that read as gibberish to both of them. 

At some point Korra lets out a huff. “You know what I always think about? With all of that kind of stuff, won’t Naga get bored?”

It’s so sentimental and innocent and small Asami feels like the next breath has been knocked out of her. How is it that the Avatar, this soul that lives again and again, always chooses the comfort of animals over everything else? 

“Maybe,” she tries, “you could see it as giving Naga some much deserved rest and relaxation?” 

Korra’s eyebrows lift. “That’s a pretty good point.” 

“And that’s how you make a sale.” 

Korra lets laughter shake her and Asami keeps scanning her face, checking if the smile is real because— well, she and Korra haven’t exactly been friends. They’ve been allies. She feels a certain loyalty to Korra, a certain debt. But she’s always been unsure if Korra likes her or if she just appreciates her. 

“Well,” she says when it returns to a calm kind of quiet, “I should probably get going.”

Korra looks puzzled. 

“It’s getting dark,” Asami supplies. 

“You didn’t want to stay for dinner?” 

“If— if I’m not imposing.” 

“You’re too polite,” Korra accuses. “The kids love you.”

“Do they?”

“I’m like absolutely sure Meelo has a crush on you.” 

Asami groans, shutting the notebook. 

Korra offers a hand to help her up. “Maybe Ikki too.” 

“You aren’t making the sale.”

“Hmm.” Korra licks her lips. “And I’ll be there?” 

“You,” Asami says, a hand lingering on Korra’s shoulder, “are going to sit next to me.” 

“To shield you?” 

“Mhmm.” 

_____________________

Korra had had a whole speech, about how she now felt more comfortable with the spiritual side of herself, and now felt it was time for the Avatar— she had referred to herself like that, with the slightest grimace— to usher in a new, technological—

Here is where Asami interrupted. “You want to learn how to drive?” 

Korra deflated. “Yeah.” 

“Okay.” 

_____________________

Asami learned to drive before she learned how to swim or do algebra or play pai sho. 

It was her mother who taught her. Asami would sit on her lap, turning the wheel while her mother shifted gears and pressed down on the pedals. In lieu of a seatbelt, her mother kept both arms wrapped around her waist. She always felt safe there. She always felt trusted. 

“You never told me that,” Korra says. Casually. Conversationally. Her blue eyes are focused forward, the muscles in her arms and shoulders tense like she’s moving the earth. But she’s just driving. 

Korra is a fast learner, but an extremely self-punishing one. Sometimes she stalls in the middle of the street and panics and apologizes all while Asami tries to reach over and help her restart the automobile. Sometimes she doesn’t settle the car into park before unlocking her seatbelt and popping the door open and Asami has to yell that she doesn’t need to smash the car when it begins to roll back across the driveway. Sometimes her hands just drum nervously at stoplights, eyes darting down the intersection for hypothetical t-bones. 

“I don’t talk about her much,” Asami says. She rolls her window down an inch. Wind stripes across her cheek. “I never really— well, my dad didn’t want to talk about her with me.” 

“Ah. So it’s like you didn’t get to practice?” 

Asami considers this. It’s funny to think about practicing conversations, and yet it’s true. She had never exactly figured out a way to talk about her mother that didn’t seem like a plea for pity. 

“It really bothered me,” she says, quietly. Because she hasn’t practiced this either. “When my father used what happened to her in court. Like it was a reason. Or an excuse.” 

Korra reaches down to shift into a higher gear. The engine softens. It feels like they’re gliding. 

“On one hand, it’s good that her death didn’t make me hate the vast majority of people,” Asami continues. Suddenly it’s just springing from her. She isn’t even thinking of the words before they’re being spoken. “But it also makes me wonder if— from his perspective— it means I didn’t love her.”

Korra nods. 

Disappointment settles in Asami’s stomach. She shouldn’t have said any of that. It’s heavy, and irrelevant, and probably uncomfortable for Korra— which she knew already, but maybe there was a tiny splinter in her that wanted to be soothed, but that’s a lot to expect from anyone, much less the most important— 

“It takes a lot of strength,” Korra starts, her voice low and serious as she risks a glance away from the road, to Asami, “to keep love as love.” Her shoulders hunch. “Does that make sense?” 

“It does.” 

Korra looks almost pitiful, her eyes flicking around, her shoulders rising to another degree of tension. 

“Hey,” Asami says, reaching out to rest just the tips of her fingers on the back of Korra’s clenched fist. “It makes sense.” 

“I didn’t practice,” Korra says, with a weak smile. “I hope that sounded wise.” 

_____________________

Asami has known Korra for two years now, but it’s like she’s just beginning to learn. It’s far more interesting than staring at a blank sheet of paper, waiting for a new airship engine to manifest. 

Like Korra is a perfectionist. She’s also so good at everything it’s easy to miss, but Korra tells her that she’d practice bending long after her White Lotus instructors had ended the sessions. 

“Was firebending always your favorite?” 

Korra grins. It’s raining and they’re parked in a vacant alley of Little Ba Sing Se. “Is it that obvious?” 

“It suits you.” 

“Actually—” Korra’s face twists into maybe embarrassment. “No. It’s stupid.”

Asami swats at her arm. “Tell me.” 

She crosses her arms. The faintest hint of a blush is tinting her cheeks. “Okay. So, as you know, I practiced firebending the most.”

Sheets of rain slap against the windshield. 

“And maybe I practiced so much because maybe I— you know.” 

“You had a crush?” 

“Maybe!”

“Why do you look so embarrassed?” It’s sweet. 

Korra’s face is progressively getting redder. “Obviously it didn’t work out.” 

“Childhood crushes aren’t supposed to work out. Though, this does explain the Mako thing.” 

“She wasn’t anything like Mako!” 

“She,” Asami repeats before she can think better of it. 

Somehow Korra manages to look panicked and hesitant simultaneously. 

“No, no, I’m just— I didn’t know you—”

Korra starts the car. “It was only a dumb little crush. It wasn’t like I had much of a selection on the White Lotus compound.” 

It’s defensive and sudden and Asami almost wants to just let the silence be uncomfortable like this. It’s obviously worse for Korra, whose hands are cinched around the wheel. 

“The windshield wiper is the lever on the left.”

“Thanks,” Korra sighs. 

Asami takes a deep breath. “Did Mako ever tell you I’ve dated women?”

“Oh.” Korra hiccups. “No.” 

When Korra parks outside the Sato mansion, she pauses between turning the car off and undoing her seatbelt. “Sorry I was a jerk.” 

“You weren’t.” Asami hesitates to place her hand over Korra’s, but when the other woman doesn’t flinch she decides she might as well. “It’s scary to tell someone that. You never know how they’ll react.” 

“Was Mako— was he okay with it?” 

Sympathy tugs at the blank space in Asami’s chest. Sometimes she forgets how sheltered Korra has been her whole life. Most of her confidence— it isn’t a farce, but it’s more from innocence than pride. And the world, this city, has spent the last two years trying to snuff that bright, hopeful, blue-eyed look out. 

“He was. Despite everything, he’s a pretty open-minded guy.” 

Korra sags back against the seat. “Not that I care, really, but— you know.”

Asami soothes a thumb over her now limp hand. “You don’t have to worry about him or about me or about Bolin.” 

She finally smiles. “I was never worried about Bolin.” 

_____________________

Varrick calls in the middle of the night. 

“Trains,” he barks, his voice frayed with static. 

Asami tilts the receiver an inch away from her ear. “What?” 

“Scrap the airships. It’s train time.”

“Varrick, this isn’t Zhu Li’s number.” 

“ _No_! I’m telling you, Asami Sato, it’s train time. Free tip. Get on it.” 

“Just last week you called me and said airships were the next big thing.” 

“That doesn’t sound like me.” Over the fuzzy white noise she can hear shouting. “One minute! All I’ve been talking about is trains. It’s trains. Who needs airships?” 

Asami pinches the bridge of her nose. “People who need to fly places.”

“Oh, that reminds me. Other big thing. Bison.” 

“ _What_? Like, you mean, physically big or—”

“Asami, if you’re smart, and I know you’re smart, you’ll be breeding flying bison starting yesterday.” 

“Varrick, I—”

The phone line thuds to a low, disconnected beep. 

_____________________

A letter comes from the Republic City prison. 

By now Asami has established a tight routine. 

Put the envelope in the bottom drawer of her desk. Unopened. 

Take the ferry to Air Temple Island. 

Knock on Korra’s window. 

When it opens, because it always opens, lean against the column. Spin the keys around a finger. “Wanna go for a drive?” 

Tonight is the first time she’s guided Korra out of the city, out to the flatlands. 

“It’s pretty out here,” Korra says. “Or, like, I can actually hear myself think.” 

Lately Republic City has been louder. The presence of the vines added spirits to the mass of voices in the streets, and then there’s the chorus of car-horns and shouting pedestrians whenever their commute is interrupted by a wandering piece of the second world. Now there’s an influx of tourists, too, now that the Spirit Wilds are scenic rather than destructive. 

“I used to come out here all the time.” It’s nice, to just sit, to be a passenger. Usually she prefers to drive, but Korra is steadier now and she even closes her eyes sometimes, feels just the wind rushing past her, tunes out the hum of the engine. 

“Is there anything to see?” 

“Not really. You can go in a straight line for hours.” 

“You should have brought me here to practice,” Korra chides lightly. 

“This is for pros only.” 

“I’ve mastered driving?” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Asami says, relaxing back against the leather seat. “Your indicator light has been on for five miles.” 

“Oh shit.” Korra laughs, flicking it off. 

The next part, the quiet, is good too. Korra is a good conversation partner and a good silence partner. If she wants to say something she will. And if she doesn’t she won’t.

Korra switches gears once. 

Then again. 

“Did you come out here to be alone?” 

Asami chuffs a humorless laugh. “I came out here because I wanted to run away.” 

“Oh.” She can feel Korra’s eyes flicking over her, a strange warmth. “Was that after your dad’s trial?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“Well. I’m glad you didn’t. You’re the best driving master an Avatar could ask for.” 

Asami cracks an eye open. “Master? You haven’t bowed to me once.” 

“Well the more modern thing would be a handshake, right?” 

“That’s true.” 

Another silence. They always slot in so perfectly, like subconsciously agreed upon intervals. 

And then: 

“I ran away from the White Lotus. Well. It was more like a shortcut. To get here. I don’t know if I ever told you that.” 

“Mm, I don’t think you did.” 

“It was quite a culture shock. And, probably, a shock for everyone else.” 

“I think I remember some of the headlines when you first came. Something about an insurrection in the park?” 

“It wasn’t an _insurrection_ ,” Korra whines. 

Asami, eyes still closed, reaches over to touch the back of Korra’s hand. It’s become automatic. Even when she’s playfully grouchy, just to soothe a hand over her’s. “I was thankful for it. Before you got here, sometimes my dinner dates were front page news.” 

“ _Really_?” 

“Mhmm. My dad called it free advertising because most of the pictures were of me getting into a Satomobile.” Asami yawns. It’s hard not to. The steady, monotonous purr of the engine. The perfect, insulating dark. The comfort of Korra’s warm hand under her’s. “If we went on a date we’d break the printing presses.” 

Korra laughs. The pitch is just barely too high. 

_____________________

Asami should be designing airships. 

Asami is thinking about the finer details of Korra’s behavior over the past week. 

Two earth-shattering things have happened. 

First, there are now airbenders. Random airbenders. People who never made as much as a breeze before suddenly carving accidental tornados. 

Second, a waitress at Kwong’s Restaurant wrote down her number on Asami’s receipt. And of course Asami had told Korra about it, because it was just natural now, to list everything that had happened since they had last been in the car together. 

“You should go out with her,” Korra decides immediately. 

“Really?” 

“Why not?” 

“I’ve been slacking at work enough as it is. There’s this whole airbending fiasco. And also, I don’t know her.”

Korra grips the wheel tighter. Never a good sign. “So you wouldn’t date a waitress?” 

That startles a laugh out of Asami. “Do I seem like that type of person?” 

“ _No_ ,” Korra groans. 

“Why are you—” Asami risks a poke to Korra’s ribs— “so insistent that I do?” 

Korra huffs, and Asami mimics her, wanting the tension to drain. 

But it doesn’t. There’s something stuffy now. The car feels cramped and humid. 

Asami rolls down her window. “Take the next three lefts.” 

“Then we’re going in a circle.” 

“Mhmm. And we’re going to go in a circle until you tell me why you want me to go on a date with a stranger.” 

Korra sets her jaw and flicks the indicator as they grumble to a stop.

“ _Korra_!” 

“Okay, okay. It’s like you said. This airbending fiasco. I’m probably gonna leave the City soon, and I just thought. You know. It would be nice. If you had someone to, like, go on drives with and go out to dinner with and talk to about—” Korra’s wide eyes flick to her’s. “I just don’t want you to get lonely.” 

The nerves in Asami’s hands shiver. She grips her own fingers, squeezes down until it almost hurts. “I’m coming with you.” 

“But you just said you haven’t been focused on work,” Korra retorts. Somehow she always makes confusion seem innocent. 

“There are more important things than quarterly reports.” 

Korra seems unsatisfied as she takes her second left. 

“If it makes you more comfortable I’ll make sure there’s a big ad in Daily News. ‘Avatar Korra Takes Flight In Future Industries Airship’ or something equally self-serving.” 

“Deal.” 

_____________________

Ba Sing Se is intensely segregated. 

Zaofu is intensely shiny. 

They don’t stay long in either. 

Asami drives the jeep. 

Korra is twenty feet ahead on a galloping Naga. 

_____________________

It was her father who taught her how to play pai sho. 

Early on he would let her beat him. Maybe as a form of affection. 

Bolin peeks over the rulebook, squinting at the board. “So I have to move my spring flower tiles?” 

“Mhmm.”

Korra and Mako are standing at the window, watching Aiwei’s door. Every time Korra stretches Mako shifts away a fraction of an inch, careful that their elbows don’t brush. 

“Okay,” Bolin chirps. “I think I got it.” 

Asami lays her own tiles down. One jasmine, one white jade, one lily. 

After three losses, Bolin huffs. “Mako, can we trade?” 

“I’m busy.” Mako doesn’t even look away from the window. 

“I’ll switch with you,” Korra offers, extending a hand to help Bolin up off the floor. She replaces him, and Asami feels briefly— well. Out of orbit. They haven’t been alone in what feels like weeks. But here are Korra’s big blue eyes, her smile, her voice dropping soft as she says “hey” and it’s almost shy. 

Asami resets the board. “Do you know how to play?” 

“Let’s say I don’t,” Korra says, a familiar smile itching across her face. “And then when you beat me it won’t be a big deal.” 

“That’s not great sportsmanship.”

“That’s a good point.” Korra sits up straight and squares her shoulders. “I’ll try my best.” 

“There we go.” 

Korra is a better opponent than Bolin. Her starts are always a bit sloppy and scattered, but at the midway point in the game Asami begins to see that no— they weren’t exactly mistakes. She sees the places where Korra has laid a foundation, where in just two moves she could win, and Asami spends the latter half of the game on defense. 

Out of five games, Korra wins twice. 

“Best out of seven,” she asks, flipping a knotweed tile. 

_____________________

An hour later Korra is in the Spirit World and her body is on the bed. Asami keeps her eyes on Korra’s chest, the fabric of her shirt, each slow breath coming in and out. 

_____________________

An hour later they’ve been attacked. Asami has one arm around an unconscious Korra’s waist, pulling her back against her front; one hand around Naga’s reins; as they ride into the anonymous desert. 

_____________________

It’s a comedy of errors. 

They’re ambushed and captured. 

They hijack the airship they’re being held on. 

Said airship crashes. 

Asami is thirsty and tired and has a pound of sand in her boots. She’s sitting up on a makeshift scaffolding, trying to dig through the carcass of the Cabbage Corp monstrosity to find any usable parts. 

“Asami,” Korra calls, gathering up a gust of wind to push herself up so she can sit on the metal fin too. Sand spits everywhere. “Oh. Oops.”

“S’okay,” Asami says, wiping off her goggles. “That’s why I have these.” 

“I was just wondering if you, uh, need any help.” 

“Well.” Asami scans the small collection of bolts in her hands. “What I really need is the engine. But it’s probably thirty feet underground now, so…” 

“You know I can, like, bend that, right?” 

Asami swats at her knee. “ _Yes_.” 

“You don’t have to be so coy,” Korra chides just before she springs away. “One engine, coming up!” 

_____________________

Beside Asami’s cot on the airship is a handwritten list of tweaks she’ll make when she gets back to the workshop. 

For one thing, the insulation is horrible. She can hear the air rushing past them, roaring around the metal shell of the hull as they sail thousands of feet above the Si Wong desert. It’s impossible to sleep. Or, at least, it doesn’t make it easy. 

Zaheer has strangled the Earth Queen with her own last breath. 

Air Temple Island has been attacked. 

A hundred airbenders— barely airbenders, people who had been non-benders, like her, just a month ago— are being held hostage. 

None of those are problems Asami can solve. Not alone. Not tonight. Not as the only person awake, save the captain, on this lonely airship. 

Her father used to say ‘do what you _can_ do first.’ 

All things considered it wasn’t bad advice. Asami pulls her jacket on over her striped pajamas, snatches the list and a charcoal pencil, and pads out into the cold maze of the passenger deck. 

Cabbage Corp is written all over the design. Shoddy workmanship. Bolts rattle along the floors. A fascinating and completely unintuitive set of long hallways, all unlabeled. Bad light placement. But there are other mistakes, probably, that she made in her own Future Industries design.She knows she has a tendency to sometimes get too focused on the guts and gears she forgot what it was like to be a person inside. 

Asami flips the paper over, spinning the pencil between her fingers. 

A door creaks. 

‘Doors creak,’ she notes.

“Asami?” 

She pivots slightly, looks down the hall and sees a small, trembling flame. The orange light comes up just high enough to brush against blue eyes. 

“Korra,” she says, a little too softly for it to carry past the constant hum of engines and air. “You know you shouldn’t firebend on an airship,” she tries, louder. 

“Oh.” Korra rubs her palms together, snuffing the flame out. “Sorry.” 

“I was teasing,” Asami says once she’s walked across the hall. “Well, kind of. I wouldn’t recommend it unless we’re going to hijack this one too.” 

It’s hard to see, in the dark, but faintly there’s the white of Korra’s grin, the soft huff of a laugh. 

“Did I wake you?” 

“Well.” Korra drags the word out into a whine. “It’s not really your fault. All this metal-bending stuff, I can just like— _feel_ everything in this ship.” 

“Let me guess. The bolts are rattling on the floors. The transmission keeps hiccuping.”

“And someone is walking around in the middle of the night.” 

Asami crosses her arms, leans against the wall. Korra probably can’t see the helpless smirk tugging at her lips. “All blameable on Cabbage Corp.”

Now Korra laughs deeper, sturdier. 

“Well, I should probably let you rest up, then. Big day tomorrow.” 

“Oh.” The Avatar tenses, just slightly. It’s always her shoulders first. “Right. Totally.” 

Asami tucks the pencil behind her ear. “Totally?” 

“Well.” Korra crosses her arms, almost defensive. “Now that I’m _up_ —” 

“And I do feel so guilty.” Asami means it but she’s also smiling. 

“—maybe we could, like, hang out?” 

Asami hums. She should sleep. She should try to sleep. She should think about Zaheer, and the airbenders, and what to _do_. She can’t strike his heart through with lightning or a javelin of ice. She’s supposed to be the strategist. She can take a farrago of screws and wires and gasoline and make something that moves. She can look at a map the same way she looks at a schematic and _know_ — or try to know — what to do. 

“You want to listen to a rant about Cabbage Corp?” 

“I’d listen to anything.” 

_____________________

Korra’s cabin is identical to Asami’s. Cramped metal walls. A small cot, where the Avatar now sits; cross-legged, the same position she meditates in. A tiny porthole, which Asami is standing next to, watching the moonlight stretch over the valleys of the clouds. 

“I think a bigger window would be nice,” the engineer says as she scrawls it onto the paper. 

“Wouldn’t that be a liability in combat?” 

“It would. But I’m hoping that, in a little while, I won’t need to take combat into consideration.” 

Korra’s eyebrows crease in a sympathetic, hopeless sort of skepticism. 

“Well, the one I designed for the airbenders was— well. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that.” 

“It’s okay.” Korra presses her fingertips against her temples, her eyes closed. “I’d rather talk about it than think about it, y’know?” 

“Yeah.” Asami drifts off. There are cliche words of comfort she could offer right now— _I know you can do it_ , _I know you’ll win_ , _everything will be okay_ — but beneath that, twisting like a pit of two-headed vipers, are all the amorphous anxieties that have been coiled around Asami’s throat since that night at the Misty Palms Oasis. Zaheer is willing to do anything to get Korra. Thirteen years imprisoned in a cave wasn’t enough to defeat that drive in him. 

And then, there’s this selfish thought: what about her father. Would every day spent in the Republic City prison breed a fresh hate for benders— her friends, Korra, maybe even—

“So.” Korra clears her throat. 

Asami taps the pencil against her knuckles. “You know none of this is your fault, right?” 

“Yeah.” It’s too quiet to be honest. 

“It isn’t,” Asami says again, more firm. 

“Then why is getting rid of me always the solution?” Korra’s eyes are wide, like she’s genuinely asking. But it’s an impossible question. “Everyone we’ve fought seems to think me just _existing_ is a problem.” 

“But they’re wrong.” 

“Yeah.” Korra huffs. She’s still rigid. 

They aren’t in a car. They aren’t in the relative safety, the familiarity of Republic City. 

But Asami still sits beside her. Still reaches out to touch the back of Korra’s hand. 

“I am nervous,” Korra admits, turning her hand over so that they are palm to palm. “More nervous than I was before.” 

“You have me,” Asami says instantly. And then, “And Mako and Bolin and your dad and— a lot of people are here to help you.” 

It still doesn’t seem like enough. Korra’s eyes are down, her hand limp in Asami’s. 

“Zaheer is just one person. The world doesn’t agree with him.” She squeezes Korra’s hand, wanting any sign of life, any resistance. “I don’t agree with him.” 

“You don’t wish you stayed in Republic City this time?” 

“Definitely not.” 

Finally, Korra relaxes. She slumps back against the wall, her head falling to rest on Asami’s shoulder. “I can’t wait to get home, though.” 

There’s probably a stack of letters from the prison waiting on Asami’s desk. “I’m not in a rush.” 

“You don’t want to go driving?” 

Asami tilts her cheek against Korra’s hair. “With you? Or the Kwong’s waitress?” 

Korra sighs so deeply the bed shakes. 

“Oh, I hit a nerve.” 

“I was trying to be considerate,” Korra whines. Her fingers slot through Asami’s. 

“You weren’t trying to get rid of me?” 

“ _No_.” And then, quieter, “did you think that?” 

“No,” Asami sighs. They’re so close now, pressed thigh to thigh, Korra’s hair tickling her nose, the warmth from Korra’s palm spreading through every inch of her. 

“Asami—” 

“When we get back, we’ll go for drives. And we can have dinner with Tenzin and Pema and the kids and all the new airbenders. And we’ll—” Be able to be alone together. “Talk. About it. Okay?” 

Korra’s next breath rattles through her. “Okay.” 

“And there are other things too,” Asami rushes, her thumb working over Korra’s knuckles. “There are these speakeasies, hidden in the alleys, and you have to know the password to get in.” 

“And you know all the passwords?” 

“Mhmm.” 

Korra rests her other hand on Asami’s knee. Is this the first time she’s initiated—”I’ve never been drunk before. Or even had a drink.” 

“It can feel good.” Asami straightens. Detaches herself. Which is such a mistake because now Korra can look at her, and her eyes are so wide and blue. “Just easy, cheap happy,” she finishes, almost breathless. 

“That sounds good.”

“Yeah.” 

They say goodnight and go to their separate, identical cabins. 

_____________________

After Zaheer there are no drives or dinners or dates. 

There is a wheelchair. 

There is Jinora’s ceremony. 

There is Korra, her body heavy and limp as Asami guides her into a lukewarm bathtub. Naga sits at the half-open door, her eyes sad and wincing, like she sympathetically feels all the pain in Korra’s body. 

“I should probably stay,” Asami apologizes, averting her eyes politely as Korra sinks beneath the bubbles. “Just in case.” 

“Right.” Korra can’t look at her either, instead choosing to glare at the dripping faucet. 

“I can fix that.” Asami is sitting on the floor, back leaned against the edge of the tub. “If it— if it bothers you.” 

When Korra’s voice comes it is hushed, almost unfamiliar. “It’s fine. Kind of soothing.” 

They listen to the water for a few minutes. Just barely faster than the tick of a minute. 

“I don’t like you seeing me like this,” Korra says finally, voice wavering. 

“It’s— we’ve seen each other injured before.” Asami can’t even count the cuts and bruises and burns Korra has soothed away from her skin. 

But this is different. This is deeper. And they sit in that silence, knowing that, with just the faucet keeping time. 

_____________________

Korra leaves alone. 

For two weeks. 

And then two months. 

_____________________

Varrick calls in the middle of the night. 

“Let’s talk trains,” he says instead of hello. 

Asami sighs, flicking the lamp on over her desk. “You’re still on the train thing?” 

“Nope! Emeralds. Gold. Silver. Alchemy.” 

Asami blinks. Her eyes are still hazy. “Should I invest in that?” 

“No, no. Lately I’ve been into this thing called monopolies.” 

“Ah. Well. Sounds foolproof.” 

“That’s what I like to hear.” 

It’s not a terrible conversation. A good three-quarters of what Varrick says is completely unintelligible, but otherwise he’s good at troubleshooting a few of the pesky issues Asami has run into so far. 

Strangely, she doesn’t want him to hang up.

But he does. 

_____________________

There are too many letters from the Republic City prison to keep in a drawer. 

Asami has a dedicated cabinet now.

She hasn’t opened any. 

_____________________

The statue of Korra is installed in Republic City Park on a brisk autumn morning. Asami stands on the makeshift balcony, squashed between bureaucrats and businessmen while Raiko booms vague platitudes into a microphone. 

“I am sure,” the president says, pushing his glasses up his nose, “that we all wish the Avatar a speedy recovery.” 

There’s a scattershot of applause from the audience below. Mostly murmuring. 

It’s been six months since Korra left for the Southern Water Tribe. Weekly, the press runs the same story— Korra’s sacrificial heroics, her tragic injuries, and then variations of Raiko’s line. Sometimes Asami gets calls for a hint as to how Korra is doing, when she’ll come back, to which she always answers ‘I don’t know.’ The pushier journalists liked to ask if she’s even _heard_ from the Avatar. There are only so many ways to avoid saying ‘I haven’t.’ 

Raiko continues reading off of his script. He’s not a bad politician, Asami thinks, though woefully uncharismatic. She almost wants to stride forward, tug at the white sheet covering the statue, and just let everyone take their pictures. That’s all they’re here for anyways. 

Beside her, Lin clicks her tongue. 

“Anxious to get back to work,” Asami prompts— quiet enough to be polite, not shifting her eyes to look at the police chief. 

“I’m sure you are too,” Lin grumbles. 

Mako isn’t here. Asami has scanned the crowd a handful of times. He had been noncommittal on the phone that morning— something about work, something about disliking posh ceremonies. 

“You could just say you don’t want to go,” Asami teased lightly, to which Mako had heaved a deep sigh. 

“But I _should_ want to go.” 

Raiko finishes his speech, steps away from the microphone. The white sheet is pulled away. 

_____________________

Six months becomes a year. 

Asami spends most of her days the way she was always meant to— in the workshop, hands black with grease, a mess of blueprints and topographic maps carpeting the floor. Right now the most important project is the city’s rail system. It’s less inspiring than designing bi-planes and airships.

_That’s good, isn’t it,_ she had written in a letter. _That I’m not making weapons anymore?_

That was before she stopped asking questions. 

She wonders, sometimes, at the post office, pressing a thin little stamp to the corner of an envelope, what her father feels. She hasn’t answered his letters. She won’t. 

And Korra hasn’t answered her’s. 

And she might not. 

But they’re both still writing. 

_____________________

She goes on dates, some with men and some with women. Always with photographers. 

It’s an annoyance more than anything— stepping out of a restaurant, dizzy on wine, feet aching in her heels— when there’s a sudden flash of light and a barrage of rapid-fire questions that Asami can only ever answer with a placid smile and a shrug of her shoulders. In the morning she wakes in an empty apartment, the daily paper on her doorstep. 

Mako brings it up at their monthly get-together, brow creased. 

“It bothers me more than it bothers you,” Asami sighs. “‘Future Industries Heiress Cozies Up To New Beau’? ‘While Sato Patriarch Serves Life Sentence Daughter Helps Herself To Calamari’? It’s just trash to sell—” 

“Maybe you could, I don’t know, lay low for a bit.” He doesn’t meet her eye. 

“They’re following _me_ , Mako.”

“Yeah, but.” He huffs, folding his arms across his chest. “If you hate the attention maybe, like, don’t do anything they want to take pictures of?” 

“I’m going out to eat,” Asami replies flatly. 

“With— you know. With. _People_.” 

“As opposed to hog monkeys?” 

“Maybe then you’d get a second date,” he sears back, yellow pupils flashing acidically and then disintegrating as he frowns, looks down at his hands, hunches his shoulders. 

Asami leans back. Maybe years ago this would have been enough to make her storm out of the restaurant, enough that she’d not want to call Mako for a couple weeks until he simmered down, but he’s the last friend she has left in Republic City. And this is how he is. Restrained until suddenly he isn’t. 

“You know they’ll be taking photos of us once we leave, right?” 

“I’ll go out the back.” 

Asami can’t help rolling her eyes. “You really think of everything.” And, then, because there’s still something petty in her, “Have you heard from Korra?” 

“No.” His brow creases further. “I haven’t really been, uh, writing.” 

Asami traces the rim of her emptying wine glass. 

“I don’t— I don’t really know what to say anymore.” 

“Then maybe there isn’t anything.” 

Mako won’t look up. “I still— I care about her. But she never writes back. Not even to Bolin. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t even open them.” 

“She doesn’t write back to me either,” Asami says instead. That might be comforting. 

“Did you expect her to,” Mako asks, and with that brusque innocence, “you weren’t really close.” 

_____________________

The next week Asami takes some pens and sheets of paper to the park, sits in the cold blue shadow of her friend and starts to sketch the statue. Usually she draws different shapes— squares, rough circles, arrows to indicate the synapses of reactions in an engine. This requires something softer— the curve of Korra’s cheek as the sun sets on the city. The tapering of her waist. The angle of her shoulders, clenched fists at her sides. 

The statue itself must have all been done by hand. It was too detailed, too smooth even for the best earthbenders. Someone had spent weeks, probably months with nothing but a chisel and a hammer, maybe a photograph of Korra sewn into their shirtsleeve for easy reference. 

There are limitations to sculpture. This Korra doesn’t have blue eyes. 

She sends the sketch in place of a letter. 

_____________________

Maybe the hard part is that it was— it _felt_ like a precipice. It _felt_ like something was going to happen with Korra and then it didn’t. 

Just like when she drove over the flatlands. The dark just kept unfolding into more darkness. 

_It’s weird that now, of all times, I’m not thinking about leaving Republic City_ , she writes in a draft of a letter she doesn’t send. _Maybe because you said this was home._

_____________________

Now the new anchor Asami keeps finding herself returning to is the park. 

The City Council renamed it after Korra. 

“They’re acting like she’s dead,” Mako snarls. They met up for his brief lunch break. “This place feels like a tomb.”

“I think it’s a nice gesture.” 

“Right. It’s Raiko trying to be polite about getting rid of her.” 

Asami wipes her hands with her handkerchief. Even though his anger isn’t directed at her, it stings. “Have you slept this week?” 

“Barely.”

That explains it. 

He leaves just five minutes later, in a rush, saying a quick goodbye through the last bite of his sandwich. 

Asami lays back against the grass. The river sighs beside her. The shadow of Korra’s statue inches across the hill, across her body, until she shivers for her coat. 

Instead Asami sits up and reaches with her left hand to stroke over the knuckles of her right. 

There’s a couple embracing on the bridge. A family having a picnic on the riverbank. 

Between the perfect, newly minted sidewalks there are criss-crossing trails of dirt. 

Asami read about them in a book Mako had given her about city-planning. They’re called desire lines— the shortcuts, the escape routes people decide to take. 

The funny thing is if you pave them people make another path anyways. 

_____________________

She gets a letter not from the prison. 

She opens it as delicately as possible, sliding a finger beneath the seam, barely wanting to peek and find that it’s a bill or a postcard from Bolin or anything other than a letter from Korra. 

And it’s not. Not really. 

It’s a drawing of a pai sho board with the three spring flower tiles set. 

Asami’s almost trembling too hard to draw, but she manages three of her own. On the back, in clumsy cursive, she writes _try your best_. 

_____________________

It goes on for months. It might be the longest pai sho game in history because of the weekly intervals between turns. Korra never writes a reply on the back of the sheet but this is better, in some ways. It’s like the silences they had in the car. At least now Asami knows they’re both participating, both choosing this. 

And, better than that, it feels like a secret. She doesn’t tell Mako because— well, he’d think it was silly. And he’d also be wrong. 

When they’re coming to the end of the match, to the point where Korra would win with one more sketched tile, Asami gets a letter instead. 

Three pages of words. 

_I’m sorry I haven’t written to you sooner, but every time I’ve tried I never knew what to say._

Asami laughs helplessly, falling back against her bed. “You needed to practice,” she beams. 

_____________________

It’s not a cure. 

Korra doesn’t come home for a week, then a month. 

She doesn’t come back on the ship with Naga. 

“This doesn’t bother you,” Mako prompts, skeptical. They’re riding back from the harbor and the sun is an annoying, unavoidable glare against the window. “She could be _anywhere_.”

“That makes it sound like you’re going to look for her.” 

“Well, we should, right? 

“She sent Naga. That means she’s coming.” 

Mako huffs. “I can’t believe you’re comfortable with this.” 

“I’m not comfortable,” Asami defends, though half-heartedly. “I’m also not surprised.” 

“Really? Because I am. This isn’t like Korra. To just run away from everything.” 

“I don’t think she’s running away from anything, Mako, much less _everything_.” 

He slumps. “Sorry. I feel like— I don’t know, I’m just angry. And Bolin definitely isn’t, and you aren’t, and I just can’t figure out why— why everyone is pretending this is okay.” 

“You miss her,” Asami supplies. “And you’re worried about her. But this is a good sign.” 

“Right.” Mako sounds unconvinced. He rolls the window down an inch. 

“Just try, when she does come back, to not—”

“Take this out on her?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Okay boss.” 

Asami swats at his arm. 

He smiles for what might be the first time in months. 

_____________________

Varrick calls, expectedly, at midnight. 

“Asami,” he roars into the receiver. 

She yawns in lieu of a hello. 

“Kuvira is _crazy_. By which I mean crazy good at her job. Just in case she’s listening.” 

Asami pushes a hand through her hair. “Um. What?” 

“If I were you I’d be locking up those spirit vines ASAP.” 

“Um. I don’t own the spirit vines, so—”

“Then buy them! I’m telling you— oh, hogmonkeys. I gotta go.” 

_____________________

And then Korra is back. 

There’s a brief discomfort, like a dislocated shoulder snapping back into place, and then they’re sitting beside each other in a restaurant, in Asami’s car.

“Thanks for, um.” Korra doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. She rests them on her knees, then fiddles with her seatbelt. “Driving me back.” 

“You don’t have to be so polite.” To remind her, maybe of how they were, Asami reaches across to poke Korra’s ribs. But it seems wrong. Not— she wants to be gentle. It’s more honest. “Do you want to drive?” 

“You’d let me?” 

Five minutes later they’ve switched places. Korra is a little rusty on getting out of the parking lot, but by the time they’re past a streetlight she seems comfortable again. 

Asami isn’t facing her window or the front of the car or anything but Korra. Her body shifts at an awkward angle in the seat, making sure they’re perpendicular to each other. 

“I’m glad you’re back.” 

Korra shoots a curious smile across the space between them. “You said that already.” 

“You’ll have to get used to it. I’ll— it’ll take me some time to feel anything else.” 

“Honestly I didn’t expect you to be so— I mean, I would get it if you were angry. Or hurt. The way we left things wasn’t— it was confusing for both of us, I think.” 

So Korra had felt it too. The precipice. The almost. 

“Would it be terrible of me to say that wasn’t the most confusing thing that’s happened in the last few years?” 

_____________________

Her father looks different. Slimmer. Gaunt. His hair is now completely white.

It doesn’t make it any easier to look at him. 

Hiroshi Sato grew up shining shoes along the alleys of Dragon Flats. 

He didn’t invent the automobile, but he made a better one. 

He made electric gloves to stop-shock bender’s hearts. He built mecha tanks and smoke grenades. He paid for the Fire Ferrets’ new uniforms. He shook Mako’s hand. 

And, Asami is sick and elated to realize, now he just loves her. That’s all that’s left of him. 

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” she begins, on their second meeting. 

“I wouldn’t ask for that.” His eyes are impossibly soft and steady. 

“But I brought this.” She pulls the pai sho board out of the bag she brought in. “If you want.” 

He unpacks the tiles carefully, like he’s afraid to make too much noise, to scare her off. 

“It’s ours,” she adds. “Mom’s.” 

He smiles down at the white jade tile. “I remember.”

_____________________

As is her pattern, Asami takes the ferry to Air Temple Island. 

She knocks on Korra’s window. 

“Time for a drive?” 

Asami just tosses her the keys. 

_____________________

For all the time Asami spent in the flatlands, she never stopped or parked her car. 

But Korra decides to. They’re maybe thirty miles from the city. It’s on the horizon, just as big as a fist, the sun sinking down beneath the skyscrapers. 

Without the purr of the engine, the wind whipping past, there’s just the jilted lullaby of crickets. And that tone of silence that she shares with Korra, this almost forgotten pitch. They’re sitting on the hood of the car, backs propped up against the windshield. 

“I’ve been thinking about something you said,” Asami begins. 

“Oh no.” But Korra is smiling, turning her head, like she’s making sure Asami can catch it. 

“Oh no,” Asami agrees. But she can’t hold the laugh. She can’t hold her hand back from reaching, resting over Korra’s. 

“A long time ago you said something like— it takes a lot of strength to make sure love remains love.” 

“Oh.” It’s hard to tell, in the half-light, but she might be blushing. Her hand feels feverishly warm. “Yeah. I remember that. We were talking about—” 

“We were. But I think it— it _was_ wise, because it applies to a lot.” Asami draws in a deep breath. “I thought about it sometimes, when you were gone. I was actually waiting to feel— I don’t know, angry at you, or— to just feel less.” 

Korra tenses just a fraction. 

“But I want you to know that that didn’t happen.” Asami reaches so she can encase Korra’s hand between hers. “I feel the same way I did before you went to the South Pole. Everything is where we left it.” 

Korra inches closer, her head resting on Asami’s shoulder. “I don’t want to ask you to wait longer. But. Um. Will you?” 

The next breath feels like one she’s been holding for three years and it comes as a laugh. “Yes.” She readjusts so they can be closer, reaching an arm to wrap around Korra’s waist, curling her fingers around the loose fabric of her shirt. 

It’s a few minutes later that she has a hand in Korra’s hair, pushing it away from her face, and Korra is twisting away because it tickles, and it’s been so long since either of them has touched anyone. 

“You know,” Korra says when she recovers from the hiccup-ie giggles that are so _new_ — “We could still run away.” 

Asami brushes her thumb against the dimple on Korra’s cheek. “You want to?” 

“No.” Korra tilts her face against Asami’s palm, chases it when Asami begins to retract. 

“Me neither.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading uwu


End file.
